Field trips are a unique piece of performance art.  Or as I fondly call them: Freak Shows.  Seriously, kids-on-field-trips give the exact appearance of people who have completely lost their everlovin’ marbles.   

The whole thing starts with an email to me from my son’s fourth grade teacher, “We’d love to have you join us for our upcoming fieldtrip blah blah blah.”  [In general, she makes it sound like being chosen to chaperone a field trip is my reward for a lifetime of good works.  But I know different.  WAY different.  I don’t do good works.  So this ain’t no reward.]

I in turn respond with a complete and total lie, “I’d love to join you for the field trip.”  And then set my mental-health boundaries with, “I will be assigned a group of mild-mannered girls, correct?  Ha, ha.  Kidding.  (Kind of.)”

When I arrive at school the day of the field trip, I note that my group does actually consist of four, fairly calm girls.  And two complete wackadoodles, also known as boys – one of which is my son.  And here I’d been secretly hoping he’d be in the teacher’s group and I could just wave to him from afar. 

Speaking of the teacher’s group…you know what else I noted?  That she only had FOUR kids in her group!  What the WHAT?!  Rude. 

Anyway, since I had a bunch of squirmy bodies to keep track of before, during and after our bus trip to the State Capitol, I suggested to same that we come up with a group name.  I envisioned that I would have to quickly get their attention when the building security guards started wrasslin’ outliers to the ground for body cavity searches.  At which point I could call their group name and they’d all stand at attention, counting off like good recruits.  I was thinking of something snappy and quick.  I was thinking school mascot.  I was thinking “Lions.”

Instead, they came up with Neon Pegasus Tortoise Fairy Rainbows.

Oy.  [rolling eyes Heavenwards]

We went on to spend a fun day learning about Cyber Bullying (a bill being discussed in the House, complete with “sexual orientation non-conformity” descriptions.  Cool.) and taxi cab service in Greeley, CO (a bill under consideration in the Senate) as the kids tried to see how many of their arms and legs they could force through the Plexiglas partitions in the Visitors’ Gallery; All while making as much noise as they could possibly make without really making any noise.  (Cough, cough, shuffle, whisper, whisper, rustle, rustle.  Shhhh!  Pinch.  Poke.  Sigh.  Giggle.  SHHHHHHHHHHHH!)  The highlight of the Visitors’ Gallery experience for me was explaining to the kids what all those shiny metal compartments were in the armrest of EVERY seat.  “They’re ashtrays.  People used to be able to smoke everywhere, including public buildings.  And those trays held the cigarette ashes.”  Judging by the shocked (yet intrigued) reaction I got, you would have thought I said, “That’s where they used to stuff the dead bodies back when mayhem ruled and you could kill people in public buildings.  Yep, those trays held the bodies.”

I’m happy to mention that I did come away from the day with body and mind (mostly) intact.  Although there was that one dicey moment as we were boarding the bus when someone was twirling around and ran into someone else’s nose, thereby starting a bloody gusher of massive proportions.  This then necessitated that ALL the teachers RUN, with full-blown BOXES of Kleenex, to the scene of the crime.  At which point I surreptitiously looked left.  Then right.  Uh-huh, I was completely alone on the bus with forty inmates and no working taser.  But it was fine because – having been informed earlier in the day by one of the Neon Pegasus Tortoise Fairy Rainbows that the toilet on the bus actually dumped its contents into the STREET – the entire cast of Nut Jobs Go To The City was clustered around the bathroom trying to prove the point through incessant flushing.

The bright spot in all this? The teacher and I are homey’s now.  She gave me her personal cell phone number.  After she told me not to give it to any of the kids (?!) and to only use it in an emergency.

QUICK, Home Girl!  It’s an emergency!!  The freak show is over and we gotta go drinkin’!  STAT!!!

Partying with Catholic Gradeschool Boys – during Lent – is a waaaay different proposition.  They’re the same barrel full o’monkeys they always are, just with fewer activity and food options.

Me:  Ok.  Time for cake! 

Boy #1:  Uhhh….I gave up sweets for Lent. 

Boys 2, 3, 4, 5 & 6: You were just eating candy in the basement! 

Boy #1:  Was I?  I don’t remember.

Me: (in my head) Thank you, narcing monkeys, for so gently reminding Gave-up-Sweets that he lapsed.  But now he’s back on track, so no cake for him.  And, it’s my unsolicited opinion that “someone” should focus a bit more on “remembering” and less on sweets for next year’s Lent.

Me: (out loud) Ok.  Well…no cake for you, I guess.  At least come and sing Happy Birthday and you can have an apple.

–after cake & presents–

Me:  Ok.  Time to put in the movie!

Boy #2:  Uhhh…I gave up movies for Lent.

Me:  Wow.  Hmmmm.  Ok.  How about everyone goes up to Sonny’s room to play Legos?! 

Boy #3:  Uhhh…I gave up Legos for Lent.

Me:  Wow.  Hmmmm.  Ok.  First off, you guys are great and you’re all going to Heaven.  Now…howz about you all sit in a circle in the basement and discuss your feelings?  Slam!  [that was the basement door slamming – because at that point I just wanted more cake and some privacy while I did it.]

The Feelings Circle quickly devolved into Sonny’s School of Wrestling.  The big tip-off was when Sissy – who was supposed to be my “eyes and ears” in the basement – came running upstairs to cut her nails. 

Cut your nails?  Wait?!  WHAT?!?     

Me:  Ok!  Everyone upstairs and outside.  It’s time to pick up the dog poop!  I’m sure no one gave THAT up for Lent, did they?!?

Nothing says “party” like a little poop pick-up session in the afternoon.  Am I right? 

Scratch that.  Nothing says “GREAT party” during Lent.  With Catholic Gradeschool Boys. like a little poop pick-up session in the afternoon. 

It’s tiiiiiIME!  It’s that time of year again to make your Lenten Promise. 

My Lenten Promise – to stop swearing – lasted for a grand total of 17 minutes this morning.

There was a spider in the kitchen sink.  %^&*ing spider!  Just waiting…waiting…WAITING to ruin my Lenten Promise.  Also?  The kitchen sink is ruined for me now too.  I can’t go near it or touch anything in it.  Because I just KNOW, despite the waterboarding and garbage disposal treatment I subjected the silver-dollar sized spider to this morning, it’s waiting on the underside of that black rubbery sink hole protector.  Waiting…waiting…WAITING!  To once again ruin my Lenten Promise.  #^*%ing spider!  #$%^&*^#ING SPIDER!!

To put my Lenten Promise in context, it’s important to mention that I think fish wives have been unfairly maligned through the ages.  These original working mothers were STRESSED!  They had to sell those BLEEPing fish without benefit of daycare!  You kids CUT IT OUT!  I’M TRYING TO SELL THE BLEEPING FISH!!

So cut ‘em some slack already.  I have.  In fact, I’ve made it my own personal mission to retroactively provide equality and justice for them – by swearing like a sailor.  (Now the SAILORS?  The sailors deserve THEIR reputation.  So screw ’em!  And I recognize, as an explanation, the fish-wife theory is lacking a bit.  Just go with it.  Otherwise, screw you too!)

But periodically (ooooh…say….every Lent or so), it occurs to me that I HAVE to clean up my mouth.  I mean, what example am I setting for my children?!  I don’t remember my OWN mother swearing. 

Much. 

(Hi Mom!  Scared yet?  But at least I’m not telling anyone about that thing, right?  That thing from Tuesday you asked me not to tell anyone about.  So that’s good.) 

Mostly, my mother would vent her anger by doing a Bruce-Banner-turning-into-the-Hulk sort of escalating growl.  gggggggggggGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!  [oftentimes accompanied with clenched fists, raised about ear-level, shaking like a weightlifter who can’t…quite…get the bar over his head]  And in moments of extreme angst, she would tack on a “SHUZBUT!” at the end.  Remember “Shuzbut” from Mork from Ork?  Yeah, that “Shuzbut.”  Embarrassing.

And one time, she even called my brother a “hassle.”  He thought she called him an a$$hole.  WE thought she called him an a$$hole.  If it were up to ME, I woulda called him an a$$hole.  But we’ve been over that already.  I’m cleaning up my act.  And my mouth.  Starting now.  Spiders be damned!! 

Ok…NOW!

I got me a bad case of Crochet Elbow.  Which is very similar to Tennis Elbow.  Except different, because the pain radiates up my arm and into my shoulderblade where it then connects via a thin band of pain all the way THROUGH my body to my collarbone.  Fun, right?    

And where does one go for help when one has Crochet Elbow head, shoulders, knees and toes, kneesandtoes? 

Why to the chiropractor, of course. 

Once I’m lying down on the treatment table, the chiropractor attaches electrodes to my shoulderblade and forearm.  We’re chit-chatting about tennis.  It’s CROCHET elbow, dammit!  Enough with the tennis.  And he asks me to tell him “when.” 

At that point, the arm-with-the-electrodes starts twitching and flopping like I’m Teddy the Dog chasin’ squirrels in my sleep woof, woof!  Uh….howzabout…NOW, Doc?!?

The doctor then does some other stuff, kinda surreptitious-like, at a table right beside my head.  And while I can’t exactly see what he’s doing (since I’m totally prone while my left arm conducts the symphony), I get the impression he’s taking incense sticks out of a wrapper and attaching them to me – one right at the top of my sweater, and the other near the crook of my arm. 

Hmmmmmm.  Incense?  I’m not a huge fan of that new age-y stuff, but if this is somehow gonna draw out the evil spirits* in my arm, then I’m on board.  Unless, of course, he LIT the incense sticks and now my clothes are in danger of catching fire??  I’m not on board for THAT.  I’ve got a busy day ahead and don’t have time to go back home to change my top due to burn holes!  So even though I don’t smell any tale-tell patchouli, when the doctor leaves the room, I glance down to see if there’s el fuego. 

I’m brought up short by the KNIFE sticking out of my CHEST!!!  What the WHAT!  Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat is THAT?!??!!!!

My eyes SNAP back to the ceiling and I’m thinking, “Ok, that can’t really be a KNIFE in my chest!  And if there’s a knife in my CHEST…then what’s in my ARM?!??” 

Sho’ nuf.  When I glance again, there’s a knife in my ARM too!  WHATwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatisTHAT?!??!

Ok, settle down.  Settle it.  The doctor would NOT put knives in your chest and arm without making you sign a Knife Waiver of some sort.  And since you didn’t sign a waiver like that, those can’t be knives.  Just relax.  Now look again.

Oh.  Phew!  Not knives.  Nope on the knives.  Just HUGE sewing machine needles.  MASSIVE, really.  The kind you might use in…acupuncture.  D’oh!  That gave me a scare for a second.  Knives.  Huh.  That was stupid. 

After electrodes and acupuncture schmacupuncture – the verdict is??  A big, fat, NO.  New age my A$$!  My arm still hurts like a sumbitch and motrin and modern medicine call my name.  In the meantime, fair warning: if you thought you were going to be getting gender-specific crocheted leprechaun hats for St. Patrick’s Day.  You’re not.   Please see “Crochet Elbow” and/or “evil spirits* in my arm” description above.

*Hi.  Now, before you get all up in arms (hee hee – see what I did there?  Up in ARMS…about my ARM?!?  hee hee) I will state outright that I’m just joking about the evil spirits.  Totally joking.  Clearly there are no evil spirits in my arm – this is actually a punishment from God for tacky crochet.  Joking.  Still joking.  We all know that I don’t make tacky crochet.

Wait!  What?! 

What just happened??

I remember so vividly the day my son was born.  And TODAY?  He’s TEN!  (Actually, if you want to get all technical, today we are celebrating the END of his tenth year, which means that he’s going INTO his eleventh year, even though he just turned ten.  I know!  My head just exploded too!!  So let’s stop with the math-y talk, already.)

What happened?  Where did the time go??  From the day of his birth to today, I can remember exactly ONE thing…the time he was learning to walk and pulled himself up INSIDE the bar stool at the kitchen island.  Abbondanza, prison-for-one!!  And just like that?  Sonny could walk.  Albeit only inside his tiny little cell.  Which really had no room for walking or sitting; only standing.  But whatever.  It’s a cute story, so don’t bring me down.

Also?  I lied.  I remember other stuff too.  I’m not THAT bad of a mother.  Puh-lease!  Remembering only ONE thing from my son’s life?!  Tell me what you REALLY think about my mothering skills. 

For example, I remember yesterday.  Yesterday was Birthday Celebration Number 1.  (We have a tradition in my family where you make your birthday last as long as possible.  So we’re living up to tradition here.)  During BC#1, Sonny got to open his gifts from aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents.  There wouldn’t have been time to do all of that this morning since it’s a school day, so we are also being practical with this multi-celebration approach.

Anyway, one gift he got yesterday was a slime making kit.  But on the cover, it shows two girls standing beside a waist-high cup, stirring something inside with a popsicle stick as tall as they are.  Scattered around the experiment site are huge bottles as high as their heads.  (Can you say “truth in advertising?”)

At a quick glance, all you could really see of the kit description was the wording above the girls’ heads that said, “100% kid approved science experiment kit.”

This visual extravaganza prompted Sonny to say,” Oooh!  What does it do?  Shrink you down??!”

And there you have it.  Why I love my son so much.  And why I remember yesterday so well.  Yesterday was a stunning example of my son’s lifelong philosophy:  All things are possible.  Nothing is too far-fetched.  And the fun never ends.

He lives in a world where it could happen – where you could finally get that “shrink you down to tiny size” kit you’ve been waiting for your whole life.  And imagine the things you could do with a kit like that?!? 

While John Lennon went a bit over long with the “beautifuls,” he had the right idea when he sang that song about his son, “Beautiful Boy.”  

Happy Birthday, Beautiful Boy!  I love you.

Sonny asked me the other day which child was my favorite…him or Sissy.  

Now – if you’re a mother – you’ll recall that when you took your motherhood oath, you swore that you would never HAVE a favorite child.  And if by chance you forgot that oath, and actually DID have a favorite child?  Then there was that secondary oath about never admitting which child IS your favorite.  To anyone.  Including yourself.

Of course you remember that oath.  It was after you did that secret handshake?  In the backroom??  You got a pin.  There was a color guard?  Still not ringing a bell?!?  You can’t tell me that none of this is sounding familiar.  And why are you looking at me like that?

Wait.  Was I not supposed to say anything about the oath??  Was this our own little big secret?!? 

Oopsie.  Sorry, Gals.  Tee hee hee.  [Insert nervous laughter here, and also…blink, blink…blink, blink…look at my cute, innocent face.  Is it defraying your anger yet?  ‘Cause this approach always works when your kids do it, right?]  

But really, who hasn’t tried to squeeze that info out of their own mother?  In fact, I remember how we (and when I say “we” I mean mostly me.  I pretty much KNEW I was NOT the favorite child.  I know.  Weird.) would put forth improbable scenarios to see how Mom would answer and then we (mostly me) would know; Finally KNOW who her favorite child was.  (Again, not me, but info still worth having in my back pocket for future sessions with the therapist.) 

“Mom, what if the house was on fire and you could only save one of us…which one would you save?”  But hah-HAH!  Mom, remembering the oath in the backroom with the secret handshake, the pin, and the color guard, would say, “I would save you ALL or die trying!” 

Hmmm…really, Mom?!   I have my suspicions.  Just ‘fess UP already. 

Still, when Sonny asked me the question of who my favorite child was, I was a bit taken aback.  I don’t recall my kids ever asking me THAT particular question.  And as far as I could tell, it was completely unprovoked (THAT day at least).

But being the mother of a former boy scout, I was prepared!  My response?  “Actually…I don’t like either one of you very much.”

Phew!  Oath preserved (to be tested another day, I’m sure).  

A MIXED Double, that is.

Hubby and I have joined the mixed doubles tennis team at the local country club. 

And just to clarify, Hubby is waaaaaay better at tennis than I am.  Surprise, surprise.  Because really, who isn’t?  But in my defense, he’s got some physical advantages that help.  First off, he’s 6 feet 4 inches tall and has the wingspan of a pterodactyl.  AND he’s a former collegiate baseball pitcher*.  This means he can hit the ball HARD!  I’m glad he’s on my side.  Also, he played tennis in highschool.  And when I say “he played tennis in highschool” I mean that he would hit the ball around at the local park with some highschool buddies during their summer break.  From highschool.  But that’s all the pro heard when she first met him – that he “played tennis in highschool,” and now he’s ranked a level higher than I am.  What?  What the WHAT??!  

But before we joined the mixed doubles tennis team, being the Tennis Dope I am, I had to seek clarification from the tennis pro, “Uh…when it says MIXED, that means it’s different skill levels, right?  ‘Cause we are.  We have.  Different skill levels, that is.  So this might be for us.”

To her credit, the pro replied with a very calm, “No….‘mixed’ refers to genders.  Whenever you see ‘mixed’ in tennis, that means it’s going to be different GENDERS.”  But I could tell it was said in the same artificially composed tone of voice a kindergarten teacher uses right before she starts smacking heads.  This is why I could never be a kindergarten teacher – or a tennis pro.  Too much head-smacking.  Which would hurt my arm.  Which already hurts from tennis. 

Anywho, this week-end, to really kick our Mixed Doubles Tennis Effort off in style, we played in a Mixed Doubles Mixer.  (Come on!  The name alone implies there was gonna be tons of alcoholic bevvies.  But, nope.  Nuthin’ doin’.  Turns out the only drink being offered was SoBe water in cough syrup flavor.)  But pay that no never mind.  What I really wanted to say is that Hubby and I ended up winning.  YAY!!!  But it was mostly due to Hubby starring in the role of Gorilla At The Net.  He can knock those teeny tiny planes outta the sky like nobody’s business.  And from where I was standing (waaaaay in the back…almost completely OFF the court…kinda like I wasn’t even playing at all…and was just WATCHING everyone play), I could see his shadow stretching up, up, up and over the net and creeping across half the opposing side.  Boom!  BOOM!  BOOM!!  (That was the sound of him walking onto the court like King Kong.  Me funny.)

Admittedly, there were only two other couples playing.  And there may have been a few rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors to determine standings.  Also?  The husband of the first couple served his ball right into his wife’s back at the beginning of the match which…uhhh…totally pissed her off and disrupted their loving married couple vibe for a bit.  (There may have also been swear words.  But we’ll keep that private.  What I will tell you, though, is that the other wives present used it as a teaching moment for their respective spouses.  The teaching moment started with: So help me, if you EVER do that to ME…) 

It also bears mentioning that the woman on the second doubles team is recovering from a broken heel bone and plantar fascia tear.  But screw that!  That’s not my problem.  I don’t care HOW banged up ya are.  I’m here to win!  Do you have a pro?!  ‘Cause I do.  And she says I’m here to win.  Which means you could bring on the whole cast of that “Spirit of ‘76” painting – including the dude with the bloody head bandage – and I’m gonna do my best to take ’em down.  I’m in it to win it!  As long as I’ve got my trusty pterodactyl ape-man by my side.  Well, that…and some well-timed Rock, Paper, Scissors.  

*One time I went with Hubby-Then-Boyfriend to a Zephyrs game.  Remember the Denver Zephyrs?  They were Colorado’s baseball team before the Rockies were a speck on the horizon.  I’m FULL of fun facts, aren’t I?  Funny AND Full o’ Fun Facts?!  Whatagal!  At the game they had this caged-in area where you could measure your pitching speed.  (You see the similarities now, right.  CAGES??  Need I mention more?)  So HTB climbed in while scratching under both arms simultaneously (ooh-ooh!  aah-aah!) and pitched a few balls, the fastest of which was 93 MPH.  A star-struck boy standing outside the cage and holding out bananas looked at HTB in awe and said, “Wow, Mister.  You should play for the Zephyrs!”  In summation, I am glad Hubby is on my side.  Because I wouldn’t wanna face THAT across the net.  He’s got the power!  And you know what THAT means, don’t you?  It means…I’VE GOT THE POWER!  [“I’ve Got the Power” by Snap!, released in January 1990 – which is close enough to the 80’s so as to actually BE the 80’s.  NOWWWW who’s got the power in this little game we’re playing entitled “80’s song for every moment in life?!”  Yep.  I thought so.]

Before you even consider going on a job interview, get a suit.  This is absolutely necessary.  I’ve been on interviews where they say, “DON’T wear a suit!” to let you know how casual and cutting-edge their organization is.  But if you’re reading this, then you’re never gonna get that kind of job.  Instead, there will come a time when you MUST wear a suit.  So, make sure you have one – preferably black, purchased at Kohl’s with your 30% off coupon.  And since the suit will be just over the fifty-buck mark, you’ll get $10 back in Kohl’s Cash thankyouverymuch.  Admittedly, the black of the pants doesn’t…quite…match the black of the blazer.  But that’s fine.  We’re not doing the matchy-matchy thing anymore.  That was so 80’s.  Also, the slightly mis-matched suit makes you look like you need a job.  Perfect!  Because you’re going on an interview.  For a job.

Prior to the interview, ensure that you’ve looked up your interviewers on LinkedIn and have researched the company and the role blah, blah, BLAH!

What is key here is to research which unique item you’ll be wearing WITH your mis-matched black suit.  Since you’re going for “memorable in the minds of your interviewers” some people prefer to wear a distinctive pin.  Or a colorful scarf.  I personally prefer to just be getting over a cold and therefore have a red, crusty patch of flaky skin right below my nose.  It’s distinctive and makes people wonder what you’ve been doing with your free time.  If the interview timing is off, and you’ve fully recovered from your cold, then one or two huge stress zits will do.  It’s all the better if you can ensure that your stress zit either a) sits to the side of your nose and is so huge that it slightly squeezes one eye shut or b) sits on the very tip of your nose so as to slightly skew your entire schnoz to the right.  Again, we’re going for “memorable” so if you can touch the zit DURING the interview just to see if it still hurts…ow! still hurts….ow! yep, still hurts…then do so.    

If you can’t work up a zit in or around your nose – then in a pinch – a slew of chin zits will do.  But in the case of chin zits, make sure to spackle the hell out of the entire chin so that it looks like you’re wearing a prosthesis of some sort.  And since I’m not trying to offend those with prosthetic chins, I’ll instead describe the look you’re going for as some sort of transgender effort to cover up your 5 o’clock shadow.  

And since I’m not trying to offend transgender folks either, we’ll now move along to the actual interview itself.  Make sure you start off the interview with a joke or two.  Recently I found myself facing a set of back-to-back interview panels scheduled with six men.  Naw, not intimidating to ME at all.  But to defray any nerves THEY might have felt about the situation, before we got started I said to those gathered, “You’re not gonna make me run through any football drills are you?”  Judging by how hard one fella laughed at that comment, I’m pretty sure they were originally considering it. 

No matter.  Talk about yourself in a bragg-y sort of way.  But not too bragg-y, mind you.  It’s a fine line.  Know it.  Walk it! 

Also?  Ask insightful questions about corporate culture and how success would be defined for the position currently under consideration.  Throw in some comments about “value-add” and “strengths.”   And whatever you do, be sure to turn that dreaded question around.  Which question?  Why that question where they ask, “describe a project that didn’t go so well for you.”  Yep.  That question can always be turned around so that you SHINE; turn that frown upside down every chance you get.  

And there you are!  You have just weathered another successful interview! 

When you get back to our car, look in the rearview mirror and note the dried eye booger that must have been there the ENTIRE time. 

Oh, I almost forgot!  Thank you notes.  Don’t bother to send ’em.  You didn’t get the job anyway.  See “dried eye booger” above.

These truths do I hold to be self-evident:

1. I don’t cry “cute.”
2. I’m a sucker for a floral pattern.
3. And I love me some Olympic Closing Ceremonies.  Correction:  I love the IDEA of the Olympic Closing Ceremonies – with the athletes parading in wearing their hard-won medals while the world looks on, proud and briefly united-as-one while we applaud their efforts.

But what ACTUALLY ends up happening?  Could be described as a total Wack Fest.  This in turn makes me completely annoyed that I spent time watching such ridiculousness.

In case you missed it, here’s a brief overview of last night’s Olympic Closing Ceremony:

There was a mime in a boat on some sort of journey.  In the sky.  The journey TO where or FROM where is unclear.  ‘Cause he’s a mime.  And didn’t say a word.  Shhhhh….

The mime was accompanied on his journey by ghosts hanging from the rafters of the arena, while below this nonsense, people dressed in glittery garbage bags portrayed the raging sea.  Until they formed themselves into the Olympic rings.  Zoom in to the little underdeveloped ring.  Remember that from the OPENING ceremony?  That little snowflake that didn’t change into a ring at the right time?  Well they were recreating the moment.  Ha ha ha!  Those Russians sure do have a sense of humor; Poking fun at their lighting failures.  Didn’t we all have a great laugh about that?  It’s like our own private, worldwide Olympic joke.  Zoom in to Putin’s face.  He WANTED to smile, but his face just doesn’t work that way.  Also?  It’s too bad all those people in that cluster-bomb ring were dead by morning.  [Kidding.  Totally kidding.]

I won’t even mention the upside-down-Chagall Town that came out after the mime-in-the-boat disappeared.  Nope, not gonna do it.  WAY WACK!  But what I WILL mention is that the Korean-skater-turned-Russian-skater who was chosen to raise the Russian flag during the ceremony didn’t know any of the words to the Russian National Anthem and so just stood there stone-faced while the youth of that country, accompanied by the elite athletes of that country, sang.  And sang.  And sang.  How long IS their anthem, anyway?  While the Korean-turned-Russian dude just tried to avoid catching Putin’s eye.  Awkies!  [I hope he doesn’t die either for not showing the proper respect to Mother Russia.  Again, kidding.]

Now let’s turn our sites to the Parade of Nations.  The chicks who escorted the athletes in to the arena looked like they were wearing white trench coats and had gotten their wrought iron head-gear at the Hobby Lobby 50% off wrought iron head-gear sale.  And while their outfits were horrible, I think we can all agree that the U.S. outfits were a gazillion times worse.  It looked like they were wearing once-white, droopy-in-all-the-wrong places long underwear down below.  Up top they had on some pea coat sweater scenario that made these elite athletes look like they had all gained fifty pounds since we just saw them on the giant slalom.  In a nutshell, most of the athletes got the memo it was dress-down Sunday and showed up wearing jeans and a team jacket.  The U.S. athletes?  Didn’t get said memo and ended up wearing some seriously unflattering crap.   Lauren!  Mr. Ralph Lauren!  Please pick up the white courtesy phone.  There’s an urgent message for you.   

17 days.  2,800 medals.  And now?  Now it’s time to dance!  And the whole thing slides quickly off the mountainside and becomes a bad dance party shot from a bunch of terrible camera angles.  There was some mayoral, exchange-of-Olympic-power formalities buried in there somewhere.  And another Russian History-told-through-dance sequence.  SUPER WACK!  But when the HUGE animatronic mascots begin to glide around the floor???

PEACE OUT!  And note to self for NEXT time: You don’t actually LIKE Olympic Closing Ceremonies. 

P.S.  If they find my body floating in the river once this insightful blog on the Closing Ceremony for the Sochi Winter Olympics has been published, Putin’s yer man.  [Kidding.  Still kidding.  Hopefully.]

Hey!  Speaking of zombies….you know who has a love/hate relationship with them?!?  My son.  He hates them.  Hates everything about them.  But is also secretly titillated by them.  And for their part, they love to POP! into his head at the most inopportune times.  POP! 

The other day he was relating to me a dream he had.  In the dream we were at the airport.  Trying to create a trap for the zombies.  Side note: I don’t think the zombies are going to fly into Denver to take over.  This approach would draw too much negative attention.  Instead, I think they’d probably just shamble over the mountains from California, because – as we all know – California is the epicenter of zombies.  But I didn’t mention this to Sonny because it was his dream.  Oh!  And also?  Zombies don’t exist.

We had to blow them all up at the airport before they made their way out of the terminal.  So we were creating a trap for the blowing up portion of the dream.  Sissy is cheerfully shouting off-screen, “Hang on!  It’s gonna work!  Just hang on!!” while first one zombie, then another, got ahold of Sonny’s feet and were gnawing big, bloody holes in them.  Nummy, num, num.  So now Sonny is screaming that he REALLY NEEDS HELP, which prompts Sissy to haul him up to the top of a super-tall car that I’m driving.  Phew!  Glad I brought my super-tall car to the airport to pick everyone up!  Eventually we’re successful blah, blah, blah.  It just descends into impressions of good vs. bad as dreams do.

The point here is that this kid is really scared about zombies.  He’s even turning run-of-the-mill growing pains into bloody zombie bites in his dreams.  It’s at this point we always cheerfully remind him that zombies are nothing to worry about.  The trick is to run faster than the person you’re with when the zombies come.  Because they always CATCH! the slowest person*.  Ha ha ha.  Aren’t we funny parents?!  Then we advise him not to look behind him but to come closer to us.  Whereupon we pull him into a hug while pretending we’re fending off zombies from behind him.  Ha ha ha.  Still funny!

So.  Where’s all this leading?  We left him home by himself post-zombie-dream while Hubby and I went to Sissy’s back-to-back basketball games.  Sonny insisted he was old enough to do this and that he wouldn’t cook anything and wouldn’t play with fire (his eyes lit up at the mention of playing with fire, like he didn’t know that was an option but was glad we brought it up).

But almost as soon as we get to the first game, Sonny starts calling Hubby’s phone because he heard something in the garage.  “Really, Sonny.  I’m sure there’s nothing in the garage.  The dog will scratch on the door if there are zombies in the garage.  What’s the dog doing now?  Really?!?  Scratching on the door??  That’s weird.  But why would the zombies come NOW?  Do you think they were watching the house?  And waiting until we left you…ALONE?!?”

By now the kid is sh**ing his pants and we’re clearly the funniest parents in the world, so Hubby assures Sonny that no, no, there aren’t any zombies.  And they aren’t in our garage.  The dog probably just smells a chicken carcass we threw out the other day and that’s why he’s scratching at the door.  But to be on the safe side, lock all the doors and close the blinds.  And?  STILL funny. 

Shortly after, I follow up with a text to make sure Sonny is ok, “R U ok??  R the garage zombies in the house yet??  Ha ha.” 

See?  Funny, right?!?  What’s not to love…hate…love about zombies?!?  They’re sooooo funny.  UntiltheyCATCHya!  Run!  RUN!!!

*This methodology of “running faster than the person you’re with” also holds true when faced with a rabid groundhog.  Right Li’l Sis?  Part B of these instructions might read: Avoid throwing dirt clods at insentient creatures.  They are already really, really angry and dirt thrown at high-velocities towards them just brings the anger out.  Run!!  RUN!!!